


Hark, Hark! The Dogs Do Bark

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Don't copy to another site, Established Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Happy, M/M, Muggle Life, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Remus Lupin Lives, Sirius Black Lives, Slice of Life, Village life, rural life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28674951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Phallic produce and acts of sabotage. Wasn’t country life supposed to be peaceful?
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41
Collections: Anonymous





	Hark, Hark! The Dogs Do Bark

The car was rumbling along the narrow road slightly too fast. Curves were sharp and the only way to avoid a collision with oncoming traffic would be by going off the road, but Remus in the driver’s seat wouldn’t appreciate such comments, least of all from Sirius. Not that Sirius had any intention to sour the mood when the day was almost as beautiful as Remus in his well-fitted tweed.

They were on their way to the annual Harvest Fair. Remus turned his head to look at the carefully packed box of soon to be award-winning vegetables on the backseat with obvious suspicion.

“Is that really all you’re taking? Your tomatoes are gorgeous, the pumpkins, too.”

“Well, winning every prize would be terribly rude. I’m trying not to alienate our neighbours while showing them who’s boss. You should be proud of me, really.”

“One might suspect ulterior motives.”

Sirius put on his best impression of innocence. “Me? Ulterior motives? With harmless Muggle folk?”

Remus muttered something about not so harmless old ladies, his narrowed eyes squinting at the road ahead.

“And before you accuse me of anything untoward, I assure you that my produce will win, because it’s the best. No magic or trickery necessary.”

“It’s just that I can’t help but notice that you’ve put every remotely phallus shaped thing growing in your garden in that box.”

“You’ve got a dirty, though delightful one-track mind, Remus Lupin. No one else is going to think that.”

Remus gave him a look. “What are you planning?”

Sirius only smiled back. 

“You know, I’ve met you almost forty years ago,” Sirius said eventually, rather more earnestly than he intended, “but you’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Why are you so soppy this early in the day?”

“Not soppy, just happy.”

Remus blinked and sighed. Sirius took Remus’ hand, which was resting on the gear stick, in his.

*

A benevolent September sun shone down on the village green, where tents, stalls and a petting zoo had appeared during the week. They barely made it out of the car, irreverently parked right next to the vicar’s rust coloured Vauxhall before Mrs Jefferson and her cronies descended on them.

“Ah, Mr Black. So lovely to see you. And your gentleman friend, too. I’ve been telling Mrs Bigsby, haven’t I, Francine.” Mrs. Bigsby nodded eagerly. “That you’ll take the competition by storm this year. And no wonder with such a marvellous garden as yours. I simply must come over for tea again very soon. Why, you must have the greenest thumb in the county. Look at these, Martha,” Mrs Jefferson continued, tenderly stroking an enormous courgette from the box Sirius was holding. “Beautiful. I am absolutely dying to get my teeth in one of those.”

Sirius winked at her. “Oh, Mrs J, if only I was twenty years older.”

“And one hundred per cent straighter,” Remus muttered under his breath.

Mrs Jefferson practically swooned. Mrs Bigsby tittered in solidarity. Mrs Jones, dour and helpful as ever, pointed out that the curate was rounding up the choir.

“We must dash, Mr Black. I’m sure I’ll be handing some of those ribbons over to you later.” 

They watched the three women walk away, Mrs Jefferson still talking a mile a minute.

“I know she knows my name,” Remus said, his polite smile fading, “What with me moving here _with_ you. At the same time. Into the same house. And, unlike her, I’ve been sleeping in your bed the whole time.”

Sirius laughed and brushed his lips against Remus’ cheek. “I have to get my champions to the judges. See you later.”

He made his way over to the judges’ tent on the other side of the green. A cornucopia of foodstuffs was displayed inside. Sirius looked at the jams, pies, quiches and chutneys in passing and made some private bets in his mind. His box would go to the back of the tent with the rest of the vegetables. To him at least there wasn’t much competition in the categories he had signed up for. He found his name card close to the centre of the table and put the box down. Rearranging a few items was all it took to show off the fruits of his labour to perfection.

Next to his on the right was Tully Huntington’s entry in heavily decorated wicker baskets. Sirius thought the carrots looked rather limp. The man himself stood close by, scrutinizing Sirius’ vegetables with feigned indifference.

“Sirius.”

“Tully.”

As the local Lord of the Manor, Tully felt entitled to many things – winning prizes, having his opinions heard, the final say in any village matters of importance – but people didn’t seem to heed or like him much. Except for a few unmarried or divorced hopefuls who were quickly disappointed when they learned that the only social climbing in marriage he would tolerate was his own.

“Good of you to participate. Respectable enough, for a first attempt.”

“Thanks, I’m feeling lucky today, to be honest.”

Tully was unpleasant, but sharp. He had recognized Sirius as originating from the same ilk at first glance, even if he couldn’t place the name. He had obviously drawn the conclusion that they had been involved with SIS business and then retired under fake identities. Sirius didn’t blame him; it was much more plausible than the truth. Remus loathed the man, of course. Tully, to his credit, seemed to be instinctively aware that Remus’ gentle demeanour hid a dangerous man, and held himself back accordingly in their interactions. It was, frankly, hilarious to watch.

“You up for preserves as well?” Sirius asked, because he felt like being polite.

“Naturally.”

“Well, good luck. Is should go find Remus. We don’t want to miss the choir.”

He left the tent, greeting some familiar faces along the way. He spotted Remus, holding two disposable cups, with Julia Wouters. She owned the cottage closest to them, although hers was technically still in the village proper. Sirius said hello to her and accepted a coffee from Remus.

“All done?” Remus asked.

Sirius hummed, grinning. “Victory is nigh.”

The choir was rustling on the small stage as the choirmistress sorted her sheet music. The people gathered around the stage quieted down obediently as Ms Pine raised her arms.

“Here comes the caterwauling,” Remus whispered.

The choir wasn’t that bad in the grand scheme of things. Sirius simply preferred hearing them in tiny doses if he had to hear them at all. Remus’ grimace was tucked behind a placid façade. Julia frowned behind her dark sunglasses. Sirius felt grateful that they always kept their performances short. After an incompetent, though passionate rendition of _All Jolly Fellows that Follow the Plough_ and two other songs he didn’t recognize, the fairgoers were allowed to disperse in exchange for a tepid round of applause.

They chatted for a while. Julia had family coming and now needed a landscaper fast, before her mother found out that Julia’s tales of being busy gardening were pure fiction. Remus, as usual, was extremely knowledgeable how to keep up a web of lies. They compiled a list of plants that Julia had explicitly mentioned to her mother by name as a starting point. Sirius was about to invite Julia to an early lunch with them when Ben Morris, chairman of the village council, interrupted him.

“Mr Black, can I borrow you for a minute?”

Sirius agreed and they took exactly three steps away, where Remus and Julia would be able to hear them just as well as before.

“Terrible business and all that. It happens. Nobody’s fault, really.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your vegetables are gone.”

“What do you mean ‘gone’? Surely, they are in the judges’ tent where I left them.”

“They’re not, though.”

“Then what exactly happened to them?”

“Well, you see, when the judges came back just now, your stuff was gone.”

“Am I to understand that the judges, all eleven of them, left everything unattended during the choir performance? That’s basically an invitation to sabotage, and a security hazard.”

“Oh no, let’s not,” Morris paused to mop his brow with a paper tissue, “Let’s not throw around the s-word. No need for that.”

“Which word would you prefer?”

“Er, well, an m-word, definitely, like _m_ islaid or _m_ isunderstanding.”

Sirius towered over him with a withering glare. Morris dismissed himself and scurried off. He was annoyed, of course, but as far as injustices went, this was a mild incident. A part of him was almost pleased that one of his competitors, a seasoned gardener most likely, had felt threatened enough to resort to toddler in a tantrum tactics. Remus, he feared, would take it a lot harder that someone had broken the little bubble of trust they were living in nowadays for such a small, insignificant reason. The less Remus was involved in this temporary unpleasantness the better.

Remus and Julia looked at him with concern.

He touched Remus’ arm briefly. “Don’t worry. You two figure out what you want for lunch. I’ll be back.”

Now a man on a mission, Sirius hurried off to view the scene of the crime.

*

Using magic in a Muggle crowd was out of the question. Sirius had to get to the bottom of the incident by more conventional means. By the time he had examined the lack of evidence and questioned the judges as well as anyone else he could think of more than an hour had passed. Admitting defeat, he went back to the fair. He found Julia throwing balls at pyramids of tin cans. Or rather, not so much throwing at as missing spectacularly.

“Oi! This is my money maker,” she said, pointing at her head. “Athletics aren’t my thing.”

“If that’s what you need to tell yourself, I won’t begrudge you the comfort.”

A rude gesture was the only reply he received. He looked around. “Where has Remus got to?”

“He went to the loo. Although that was a while ago. I hope he’s not under the weather. Any news about the missing veggies?”

“Sadly, no.”

“Bunch of cowards. They were never going the let an incomer sweep the competition.”

“We’ve lived here for seven years.”

“You know what these communities are like. You’re an incomer for life unless you were born here. Oh—” She laughed. “Incomers one. Villagers nil.”

There was Remus, striding up to them with the vegetable box in his arms. Sirius met him halfway. He would never describe his following actions as frantic, merely methodical as he checked the contents of the box. Luckily, his vegetables were as perfect as they were before their disappearance.

“My brilliant darling.” Sirius took Remus’ face in his hands and kissed him.

*

Sirius returned his vegetables to the judges’ tent right away. This time every member of the illustrious eleven was present and accounted for.

“Where did those come from!?” Ben Morris blurted out.

“If you think you’re in a position to question me, you’re mistaken,” Sirius said coolly. “I hope you’ll be more vigilant from now on.”

Eleven pairs of eyes looked away. 

“Ahem, of course, Mr Black,” Ms Pine said, “You have my word.”

“Excellent.”

Sirius used the time until the award ceremony to treat Remus, Julia and himself to plenty of greasy fair food. They sat at one of the picnic tables with their spoils and enjoyed the sunshine.

“You know, in all the excitement I completely forgot to ask. Where did you find my vegetables?”

Remus shrugged. “In the first place I looked.”

Sirius gestured for him to elaborate, but Remus shook his head. “It’s not important. What’s important is that you have them back, safe and sound, and no one is going to mess with them again.”

Further inquiries proved futile, so Sirius changed the topic. “How is that deception of mother dearest going?”

“Great. I have time tomorrow to look for someone and Remus promised to ask around, too.”

At precisely two o’clock, with the church bells ringing, the award ceremony began. The crowd in front of the stage was significantly larger than it had been for the various entertainment acts of the day. Everyone who was anyone in the village had a horse in the race. Those who didn’t participate had applied to be judges.

Tension was high. Paul Harker received two awards back-to-back for Best Pie and Best Quiche, accompanied by an enthusiastic response from the audience and an appreciative whistle from Remus. A noticeably cooler applause awaited the vicar as he ascended the stage to accept an award for his pickled onions. Sirius brushed imperceptible lint off his coat. Remus coughed. Fortunately, acceptance speeches were actively discouraged. More names were called. People got up on stage to accept their prize ribbons and returned to the audience. The last award before the produce section went to Tully Huntington for some small, shrivelled items floating in a fancy jar, which Sirius assumed to be pickles.

Anticipation was sweet enough, but Sirius was more than ready to be crowned the King of Gardening. In the end, it all seemed to be over in the blink of an eye. Exuberant cheers mixed with the satisfying grumbling from some of the winners of previous years as Sirius collected the awards for Best Carrot, Best Cucumber, Best Courgette and Best Aubergine. Mrs Jefferson made liberal use of her elbows in order to pin all four ribbons to his chest. Sirius bowed graciously, winking at a proudly hollering Remus.

He didn’t hear a thing of the rest of the award ceremony. A much younger Sirius would have despised him for the elation, the pure, simple joy he felt for something so inane, so ludicrous. Sirius in his prime thought that his younger self should sod right off.

There were many hands to shake and people to thank for their congratulations after the award ceremony concluded. Remus at his side observed the spectacle with his usual air of distant anthropological curiosity.

Mrs Bigsby, who volunteered for the tiny local rag which landed in their mailbox every Wednesday, directed a spotty youth to take pictures of all the winners. Remus’ arm went around his waist for a brief squeeze. “Take care of your adoring fans. I’ll be in the tea tent.”

Sirius smiled until his face hurt, showing off himself and his vegetables. For a few minutes, the chatter around him became remarkably interesting and he listened closely. By the time the excitement died down, some people were already talking of Halloween preparations. Sirius rolled his eyes internally and wandered off to find Remus.

Julia was at it again with the tin cans, but he didn’t stay to watch. He slipped into the tea tent before Mrs Jefferson could congratulate him for a third time. Inside he found Remus with a large cup of tea and a piece of Battenberg cake. Remus asked him about his press tour and if they should expect camera teams at the cottage. “Who knows,” he mused, “maybe the BBC wants to interview you.”

“I think the BBC would be more interested in a different story.”

“Oh?”

“The strangest thing happened to Tully’s vegetables. One of the ponies took a dump on Tully’s stuff. And only Tully’s stuff, not a speck on anything else. Awful mess, they had to disqualify him for those categories.”

“Really? That’s terrible,” Remus said mildly.

“Yeah, but the strangest thing was that it happened while all the judges were right there and no one saw, heard or smelled anything until was too late.”

“Sneaky horse. Well, it was nice of them to give him the pickles award as a consolation prize.”

Remus, his eyes soft, turned to him and brushed his fingers over the ribbons pinned on Sirius’ coat. Sirius forgot the question he was going to ask.

*

They were waylaid walking to the car by several villagers eager to buy him celebratory drinks at the pub. Although the beverage quality was nothing out of the ordinary, the food was excellent. A few years back, Paul Harker had dropped out of university to got to culinary school. The man was clearly gifted. Sirius had no idea what he was doing wasting his time in a village pub.

They took their usual table, neither near the kitchen nor the restrooms, and with a nice view of the main road for people watching. The general mood was boisterous. People were chatting and laughing from the bar to the darkest corners in the back.

“I’ve always said Mr Black is going to win it all, haven’t I, Francine,” Mrs Jefferson said, blocking the path to several tables. Mrs Bigsby nodded tipsily. “He will, or I am not Gladys Jefferson.” She raised her glass to toast him again. Sirius nodded his thanks and put his arm around Remus’ shoulders, whose last few sighs had sounded somewhat irritated.

Aileen McDermott, a young waitress with murder in her eyes, pushed through unceremoniously, though Mrs Jefferson didn’t notice. Her raptures were only brought to an end by Mrs Jones waving her over to another table.

At some point Julia appeared at their table like an opportunistic ghost smelling a freebie. One could complain about the villagers for various reasons, but most of them were generous enough to buy for the whole table when they bought someone a drink. Sirius made a pointed remark about her usual aversion to all groups or entourages. 

“Sorry, what?” she shouted, shaking her ice filled cocktail in front of his face. “Can’t hear you over my free drink.”

Remus snorted next to him. Sirius pinched his thigh in retaliation.

They ordered an early dinner, because Sirius knew they would be too tired and lazy to cook something at home later. Although he was not working in the kitchen that day, Paul Harker came over to them when they had finished eating. He placed a richly decorated plate with some elaborate chocolate concoction in front of Remus. The often-repeated excuse was that Remus with his trusty palate taste tested Harker’s creations before they were put on the dessert menu. Sirius, of course, had never believed any of that for a second. He was, however, far too smart to put himself between Remus and free pudding.

Remus, visibly chuffed with this turn of events, thanked Harker earnestly and told him his newest endeavour was a piece of art, almost too pretty to eat. Almost.

“I’ve got a nice dessert wine to go with that, if you like,” Harker said with a sparkle in his eyes. He had this type of very dark brown eyes that look black in the right light that Remus was so fond of.

“Sorry, Paul, not for me. I’m driving.”

Sirius received an unimpressed look from Harker which seemed to convey that Remus could easily get himself a private chauffeur, if he replaced Sirius with a younger model. Remus promised to stop by the bar to talk about the dessert before they left. Knowing that there would be no distracting Remus from his chocolate extravaganza, Sirius returned to his conversation with Julia.

It had been a good day. Remus was a languid, blissed out presence by his side with his rolled-up sleeves exposing freckled forearms. Sirius would miss them when they turned barely visible during the winter months. Everything was warmth and light. He felt magnanimous towards everyone around him. So much so that he told Remus, who followed Tully walking through the pub with cold eyes, to be nice in a way that was only half sarcastic.

“I’m always nice,” came Remus’ lofty reply.

*

Saying goodbye took much longer than usual. Why was it that people who normally used fewer words than a reticent iguana became positively loquacious when one was halfway out of the door? Sirius was finally done when Remus returned from the bar where he had compared notes with the besotted cook.

“We’re giving Julia a ride home,” Remus informed him.

“Didn’t she take her bicycle this morning?”

“So? I’m not going to let a young woman cycle home alone in the middle of the night on a lonely backroad.”

“She’s over thirty. And its eight p.m.”

“Yes, and you’d drown yourself in guilt, should she cycle herself into a ditch just because she had a few cocktails.”

“Fine.”

Watchful eyes observed them from the bar. Sirius could practically see the fantasy playing behind Harker’s eyes, how he imagined throwing some handsome professor type over his muscular shoulder and take him back to his delicacy filled lair. Sirius gave him a smug little wave and pulled Remus close as he led them outside.

They watched Julia unlock the door to her cottage a short time later before driving on. The roads were deserted, though it wasn’t late in the evening. For a moment Sirius wished that they would keep driving like they had done when they were teenagers. Remus had known how to drive a Muggle car and had driven them through the countryside where he grew up for hours and hours during balmy summer nights. Sirius had been next to him on the passenger seat, his heart so full it had ached in his chest.

Sirius brought Remus’ hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. “Thank you for today.”

“I’m not entirely sure what you’re thanking me for,” Remus said eventually, “But, hypothetically, if your gardening, which makes you happy, was in peril, I wouldn’t stand by and let some posh twat take that away from you.”

Back inside their cottage, Sirius carefully unpinned the prize ribbons from his coat and put them on the mantelpiece. He decided to make a last round through the garden before going upstairs. It was a large property. More than enough space for Padfoot to run and chase sparrows and squirrels, and for Sirius to grow everything he wanted. He seemed to breathe more deeply when he was out here. Remus expected him to grow bored of it by next spring, that his sudden desire for a proper garden would disappear as quickly as it started, but Sirius was already planning ahead for the next couple years. In any case, he couldn’t possibly let the villagers get away with believing his victory had been a fluke or beginner’s luck.

When he went upstairs to change, he found Remus lounging on their bed in a ratty old t-shirt and his boxer briefs, writing something on a pad of paper with a fountain pen. He was wearing his tortoise shell glasses, which Sirius loved. Remus did not, because he thought a werewolf needing reading glasses was the worst joke imaginable.

“I thought you were out of schemes for the night,” Sirius said, putting on sweatpants and a soft shirt.

“I’m writing to Neville. Julia’s going to need some special help if she wants to pull this off.”

“Isn’t he busy being a professor these days? Teaching and whatnot.”

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean I can’t invite him for a weekend. I think he just broke up with a fellow professor. It’ll do him good to get out of there for a bit.”

Sirius pinched the bridge of his nose. Just what he needed, more bright-eyed young men with incurable soft spots for Remus. He watched Remus write his letter with his unscholarly thighs on display and the woollen eyesores on his feet. He was almost tempted to change into Padfoot to jump into the sheets and send pen and paper flying. Instead, he crawled between Remus’ bent legs as he was.

Remus eyed him briefly over the top of his letter. “What are you doing down there?”

“Remus Lupin,” Sirius said with pathos, “you saved the day. You deserve a treat.”

“Is that so?”

Sirius hummed. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Remus’ underwear and pulled it off. Remus chuckled, but finally deigned to toss letter and pen aside. He lay back and, after a content sigh and a little wriggle to get comfortable, gave Sirius a lordly gesture with his hand.

“Have at it.”

“So, you’re just going to lie there and make me do all the work?”

Remus raised his head and blinked. “You just said I deserve a treat.” 

Sirius stared at him. Remus stared back. “Of course, if you’re not up to it, I understand. We wouldn’t want you to dislocate anything important.”

“Watch who you’re calling old around here.”

Remus shrugged. “Well, when you turn fifty next year, I’ll still be a mere forty-nine.”

Sirius nipped his thigh. Remus laughed. In the end, work was the last thing on Sirius’ mind.

*

On the following Wednesday, Sirius woke up at five o’clock, disentangled himself from the closet weresquid that was Remus, and went out to retrieve the local newsletter. The frontpage showed a large photograph of him with his most charming smile. The headline was everything he had hoped for and more.

“Sirius Black Has The Biggest,” it proclaimed in big, bold letters, before the much smaller by-line continued, “success at this year’s Harvest fair. New gardener sets new record with four awards.”

The expensively gilded frame he had retrieved from one of the lesser Black properties lay ready on the coffee table. Its inherent magic would prevent the cheap paper of the newsletter from fading or crumbling. He indulged himself by reading Mrs Bigsby’s article several times, before marking his favourite bits with an eye-catching neon highlighter: _beautiful in form, impressive in length and girth, mouth-watering, the sweet odour of sensual pleasures to come, bulging with health, left the judges gagging for a taste_.

From the stairs came the sound of uncoordinated shuffling. Remus appeared with his pillow creased face and small blinking eyes, his hair a silvery riot. “What‘re you doing up?” he rasped.

Sirius, beaming, showed him Mrs Bigsby’s masterpiece.

Remus’ expression was pure judgement. He turned slowly on his heel, swaying a little in the process, and dragged himself back upstairs.

“Philistine,” Sirius muttered fondly.


End file.
